Angry, red scratches mark my arms

Angry, hot tears mark my face

Why is that?

I am used to being loved

Not left alone in despair

I am used to having hope

Not feeling helpless in the dark

Friends and family

Used to surround me

Now I've nothing but myself

Not even a god to believe in

I think of myself as dead

Walking and breathing

But dead

Dead inside

With nothing left to do but hurt

Nothing left to do but cry

And as I look at my scars

As I look at my wounds

Through wet, blurry eyes

I now see that

There's danger in desolation